Song of the West Wind
by EireCat
Summary: The collected songs of Lyra Zyphyre: bard, virtuoso, and troublemaker extraordinaire. Dear God in Heaven, an update! The author isn't dead! Read it!
1. Default Chapter

Author's Note: Hello again all. This is something a bit different for me. My 'Marvelous Misadventures' files being stuck on my computer back at school, I have needed another creative outlet. Since my DM has been bugging me for quite some time to write out more of the songs my bard character is supposedly famous for, I thought this forced hiatus from 'Misadventures' would be a good time to do it. There you have it. I hope you enjoy.

Oh, yes! And if you ever get the hankering to know more about Lyra, or the motley crew she adventures with, take a peek at the **excellent** stories "The Saga of Boy" by JoGeek and "Follies Under the Banner" by LaughingWolf. Peace.

EC

The fire had long ago burned out its hungry fury. Now, the flames were flickering docilely, casting odd dancing shadows onto the tired faces settled around them and creating a small globe of comfort beneath the vast skies of the prairie.

Yadros stretched contentedly, lazily following the sparking embers with his eyes as they flew up to join the endless stretch of stars. His reverie was interrupted, however, as the quiet of the evening was broken by a stream of cursing coming from the darkness on his right. Recognizing the voice, he chuckled to himself and reached for his bottle of brandy, proffering it to the irate figure sitting next to him.

"Little hair of the dog, Lyra?" He laughed smugly and ran a hand through his tousled auburn curls. "You sound like you're still recovering from your little drinking competition with Boy earlier."

Boy lifted his head at hearing his name and shot the mage a long-suffering look from across the fire. "I would hardly call it a "little" competition. We drained what? Six bottles?"

Lyra looked up from the rolls of parchment she was shuffling and raised an eyebrow with a crooked smile. "Well...**I** drained six bottles. If I remember correctly, you were kissing the dirt halfway through bottle number five." She waved a hand airily to cut off Boy's outraged denials. "In any case, I am in no need of any of your rat piss, Yadros. I'm fine. The colorful language was merely the result of having spilled nearly an entire bottle of ink on this damned parchment." She shook the damp parchment woefully as if to make her point.

Boy sat up on his elbows, interested. "What are you writing?"

Yadros waved a gangly arm expansively. "Doubtlessly, it is the tale of our brave exploits across the known continent to save life as we know it."

Lyra smirked, tossing her long, dark braid over her shoulder. "Oh yes.... Exactly. In fact, there's a whole ballad dedicated to you, Yadros. I call it "How I Decimated an Entire Village of Innocent Tribesmen." Catchy, isn't it?"

Boy rolled on to his back, choking with laughter as Yadros shot Lyra an icy glare.

"Charming, my dear... Charming."

Lyra merely chuckled and shook her head, the scratching of her quill the only sound in the once again peaceful night.


	2. A Pretty Maid From Madresar

A pretty maid from Madresar

There was a long while by,

And she was fair as the pale moonlight

And the white stars in the sky.

With a dee rye riddle diddle dye doh

A dee rye riddle diddle dan

The pretty maid went into town

To buy a skein of thread,

And a rich man's son fell into her eyes

And swore she'd fall into his bed.

With a dee rye riddle diddle dye doh

A dee rye riddle diddle dan

"O, how can I get to your chamber, lover?

How can I get to your room?

For you could have a rich man's son

To pluck your maidhood's bloom."

With a dee rye riddle diddle dye doh,

A dee rye riddle diddle dan

"For you could have a diamond ring

As big as pigeon's egg,

Or a dress of gold and a silken cloak

If you'll but spread your legs."

With a dee rye riddle diddle dye doh

A dee rye riddle diddle dan

Said she, "Please take your diamond ring,

Your jewels and clothin' fair,

And shove them up your rich man's arse

For all I bleedin' care."

With a dee rye riddle diddle dye doh

A dee rye riddle diddle dan

"My lover is a poor man's son

No jewels for me he buys,

But he plays upon a merry harp

And the stars shine in his eyes."

With a dee rye riddle diddle dye doh

A dee rye riddle diddle dan

O, he grabbed her by her pale white wrist.

He held her close and hard.

"I'll kill you in the streets meself,

if you snub me for a bard."

With a dee rey riddle diddle dye doh

A dee rye riddle diddle dan

O, she looked into his angry face

With a gleamin' in her eye.

"Sir, you can have me, legs and all,

If you hold your drink better than I."

With a dee rye riddle diddle dye doh

A dee rye riddle diddle dan

O, he to a bar and she to a bar

And both to a whiskey glass,

And two and a half hours later

He was passed out on his ass.

With a dee rye riddle diddle dye doh

A dee rye riddle diddle dan

O, he woke up in the pale moonlight.

He woke up askance.

To find she'd stuffed an angry nest of

Hedgehogs in his pants.

With a dee rye riddle diddle dye doh

A dee rye riddle diddle dan

"O, curse her eyes!" he shouted,

"And rot her with the blight!

For she hath taken a rich man's son

And made him a hedge knight!"

For she hath taken a rich man's son

And made him a hedge knight!


	3. The Three Crowns

Sing knock me twice on an old oak bar

With the lantern light a-glowin'

For the beer is brown

At the old Three Crowns

And the whiskey's always flowin'.

O, I knew a man

By the name of Bran

And his whiskey was delightful

He said "Goblins I've taken, and dungeons I've shaken,

It's my wife that's _really_ frightful."

Sing knock me twice on an old oak bar

With the lantern light so mellow

For the beer is brown

At the old Three Crowns

And the bartender is yellow.

O, I knew a man

Who the lassies loved

And I heard him once complainin'

He said "I'm handsome and quaint; I just wish that the saints

Had remembered to put my brain in."

Sing knock me twice on an old oak bar

With the lantern light a-glimmer

For the beer is brown

At the old Three Crowns

And the bouncer couldn't be dimmer.

O, I knew a bar

In far Kelebrind

Full of bold and daring rovers.

They say "This world's full of blood, fear, fire famine, and flood...

...

Won't you pass that tankard over?"

Sing knock me twice on an old oak bar

With the lantern light a-smolderin'

For the beer is brown

At the old Three Crowns

And the company is golden.


	4. Dreaming Old Dreams

_Oh, the traveler's song is a weary one,_

_And the wanderer sings alone._

_But the friend at hand is ev'ry man,_

_And the road is always home._

The quality of the lighting in The Three Crowns tavern was dubious at the best of times. In the small hours of the night, when the golden glow of lantern light struggled to shine through air thick with laughter and the rich smoke of pipeweed, it was jokingly said that you couldn't find your own backside without both hands and a compass. The Crowns was far from Kelebrind's finest tavern; the patrons were rough, the food was rancid, and it was hard to tell from day to day whether the ale or the serving wenches had uglier heads. But for a few hours every night, to one girl's mind at least, there was no more desirable place in Kalidesh than that crowded, pungent, dingy, disreputable tavern.

Lyra Zyphire tapped a dirty fingernail against the stained surface of the ancient oak counter in rhythm with a melody only she could hear. The big man behind the bar looked up at the sound that only the saints knew how he heard over the roar of the crowd of farmers and fishermen. He gave her a golden toothed grin and began to fill a small tumbler with a deep amber liquid. Topping it off expertly, he slid the chipped glass her way. Lyra caught the whiskey with a laugh and saluted the big man, her nervous tapping continuing in little tinktinktinks on the side of the tumbler. He smiled again.

"You're looking lovelier than usual tonight, lass. Wouldn't be trying to break my heart and catch some other strapping young man's eye, now would you?"

Lyra smiled crookedly, subconsciously tugging at the end of her long tousled braid. "Now then Bran," she sighed, batting her eyelashes and striking what, in anyone other than Lyra, could be called a waifish pose. "Am I not far too pure and innocent a maiden to go wantonly breaking the hearts of handsome men such as yourself?"

Branen Casterly beat the splintered bar with his fists, oblivious to the withering glance Lyra was giving him, as he tried to control his snorting laughter. Choking, he wiped his eyes with the corner of a grease stained apron. He ruffled her dark hair affectionately. "Oh, I know, lass. But I also know you too well to think that there is even the remotest possibility that the words "pure" and "innocent" could ever be used in the same breath as "Lyra." He ducked as she swung at him playfully. Sniffing haughtily, she straightened the low neckline of her chemise.

"Even saying that were true, you rotten excuse for a bar monkey, I'd still be afraid your darling, demure little wife would tear my eyes out through my stomach if I so much as looked at you slantwise."

Branen wiped halfheartedly at a dirty glass with a dirtier rag. "Oh don't be silly, lass. Armina would never do a thing like that." He scrutinized the glass up against the smoky light. "She'd go straight for your throat."

Lyra laughed and grimaced as she tossed back the glass of bitter liquid, running her tongue over her teeth, and watched somberly as Branen refilled her glass. Once he had finished, she lifted it too him with a melodramatic flourish and smiled.

"To the Three Crowns; may her guests always be more numerous than the rats in her cellar." She sighed contentedly. "It's good to be back."

Branen smiled and went back to counting bottles, calling over his shoulder over the noise of the jostling evening crowd.

"And well we've missed you. Where have you been, to keep our hearts so lonely for your silver tongue?" He grinned mischievously. "I'm sure our boy Rauwin would be most anxious to hear what has kept you."

Lyra shot him a wry look and wrinkled her nose in the direction of the golden-haired oaf of a bouncer that Bran was referring to. Rauwin's clean cut, handsomely chiseled face stood out among the rough patrons of the tavern like a gold plated dagger amongst a drawer full of Bran's cheese knives. Even now, one of the giggling serving girls, Mara probably, was quite obviously trying her charms on the boy. Lyra chuckled wryly. And if _she_ knew anything, each and every one of poor Mara's feminine wiles were blowing straight over Rauwin's thick head. She rolled her eyes. _Pretty boys…_

"If you must know, you old gossip, I've been here, there, and everywhere. It is not as easy to slip away as it used to be. My duties at the manor house have been tediously occupying as of late. I think Matthew may suspect something of my little…" she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "…sabbaticals here at the Crowns."

Doing his best to look menacing by the door, Rauwin caught her eye and waved shyly over the heads of the packed patrons. Bran chuckled deeply and Lyra muttered something obscene under her breath.

"Please, don't encourage him Bran. If I receive one more dubiously metered love poem, I believe I shall be ill all over your splendid bar." She gagged and then squeaked in protest as Bran swatted at her with his cleaning rag.

"Well, if you're not requiting any aching loves this evening, perhaps you'll be so kind as to tune up that questionable gut bucket of yours and start earning your keep. Or do I pay you to sit at my "splendid bar" all evening looking pretty?" Lyra shouted a course laugh as she dodged the next swing of his dish rag.

"Compliments and whiskey hardly denote _pay_, Bran. Especially when it's _your_ whiskey." Ignoring his incredulous outburst, she leapt lightly to a table top, pounding the well worn heel of her boot against the thick, shabby boards to get the crowd's attention. When every eye, bleary or bright, was fixed on her, she doffed an imaginary cap to her audience, breathing in their attention like sweet air, and bowed deeply.

Fixing them all with a charming crooked smile, she winked cheekily at Bran and ran her slender fingers expertly up the elegant neck of her lute. She paused for a moment, her hand poised trembling over the strings. Eyes closed, she reached deep within herself for that place where the strings of her lute became one with her fingers, her thoughts, her heart. Suddenly, with a whoop from her audience and a flashy downward flick of her wrist, the smoky air hung no longer heavy and stifling, but was alive with music.

She played far into the night: ballads, tarantellas, questionable religious pieces that made the somber cleric hiding in a corner sit up and blush, and a few bawdy airs of her own creation. For a few hours, the patrons of the Three Crowns forgot the bad food and the poor fishing season and their empty pockets. For a few hours, a girl and her lute wove them songs of tomorrow.

Lyra smiled. Manor houses and duties and lords and ladies be damned. Here. Here in the smoke and the lantern light and the music; here she was home.


	5. Roads of Starlight

The road is grey

With silver shadows.

The way is dark.

I cannot

See my footsteps falling on the cobbles at my feet.

And I walk,

A lonely wand'rer.

Searching dusk and daylight when I know not what I seek.

Yet through this night

The stars will guide me.

Through this hour

When the dark is thick and wild,

I will seek

The silver starlight

And their drops of diamond frost will kiss this child

And I know

I'll find my way

Home by the stars.

The mists are cold.

They cling and whisper.

My lonely

Heart will yearn to hold their voices, though I know they lie.

And I walk,

The child of twilight,

Seeking long forgotten faces in a velvet sky.

The night has come

In ribboned sable.

And my feet

Still must hunt the weary road.

I will seek

The silver starlight,

And the whisper of its memory will lighten my heart's load.

And I know,

I'll find my hope

In the bright stars.

There is a time

Between the waking

And the sleep

Of golden children dreaming of a world they never see.

And in the breath

That spans the knowing

I have watched one thousand nevers slowly come to be.

Red as war,

And white as hunger.

Life and death,

Are but shadows on the wall.

So I will seek

The silver starlight,

And the song of ages in the heavens' hall.

And I know

I'll find my song

Within the stars.


	6. The Joy of Lady Lyra

The stars were burning brands of white fire; strewn liberally over the heavens as if by some giant, careless child. Their scattered reflections winked back up at them from the gently rolling sea, a blanket of sable pinpricked with diamonds beneath the yawning expanse of the heavens.

At this hour, the ship was quiet. Her crew was sleeping below in the holds, or pacing the rocking deck with silent, measured strides in the rounds of the night watch. At the high prow of the ship, a single light flickered fitfully in the salt breeze, casting its warm glow on the two figures sitting within the circle of its warmth. Neither of the figures were watching the merry flames in the brazier, however. One's gaze was fixed on the strings of the lute being softly played. The other's eyes were only for the bright stars as the last strains of music died away, and the song came to an end.

"That was beautiful, Lyra, and very...unlike you. Not in its beauty, but in it's content. I am curious. What is the source of your current melancholy?'

Lyra brushed the fall of dark hair that had fallen into her eyes behind her ears, not answering the young mage for a moment. Finally, she looked up; the light of the little fire seeming to hold her attention.

"I don't know, Yadros. I guess I'm just feeling tired. And very, very far from home…"

Yadros nodded slowly, turning his head to watch the bard as she sat staring at the flames.

"Tired? That, I believe, you can attribute to the ardors of our journey. But far from home? I think not." He lifted a hand, sweeping it across the sky above them, as if including the whole glorious span of the heavens. His hand paused, pointing to a graceful collection of stars.

"Look. You see there? The Fist of the Prophet. And over there? The Rose. The same stars shine over your home, Lyra. Even though your path takes you away from the things you cherish; there are always some things that never change." He smiled.

"Granted, this is no fine tavern with stout ale and a warm hearth. But is it not pleasant to sip a bit of drink with a friend that has come this far with you?" He raised his brandy snifter as if illustrating his point. "Your song speaks of the paths of the stars, and you are right to look to them. But remember, they are only roads. What you seek is a _destination_. A place to truly call home."

Lyra watched him in silence a moment before shaking her head and turning away, the light catching the faintest glimmer of tears in her eyes.

"The stars are fine for guidance and poetry, Yadros, but they are cold. Where do I belong, then? In Kelebrind? I ran from there six years ago with the blood of the man I called 'father' on my hands. I have no home now."

Yadros let out a soft sigh and reached forward to gently tilt her chin up. "Ah, but that is not true. Your home his here… And here…" He gestured to the sea, and then to the cabins at the far end of the ship. Leaning forward a touch he tapped her softly on the chest. "And here."

She raised an eyebrow and grinned mischievously. "On my collarbone?"

He sighed expansively and tapped her on the chest again. "Lyra, home is not a place. Or rather, it is not a location. For those like us that have been called to do great things, home is where we are. Home is our friends, a warm cloak, a good flask, a crisp smoke and a gentle fire." He leaned back again, contemplating the stars reflected in his brandy and murmuring softly. "Do not think that any who rest near here would think twice about standing to be counted as your friend."

The young bard sitting across from him straightened almost imperceptibly. Silently, she looked up at the stars again; but this time with the first beginnings of hope rather than despair. Yadros smiled.

"Shall we play it again? I loved that melody…"

Lyra picked up her lute and laughed quietly; the music of her elation once again enough to shatter the stars with joy.


	7. A Song on the Redistribution of Wealth

Sun is in the grassy field and

Moon is in the meadow.

Wind is dancing in the leaves and

In the river's bed-o.

Bow ye twice to the fine old dame

That is summer's daughter.

Sit ye down for a tale or two

Where good ale flows like water.

There's a Halfling I once knew

Finger's fast as his heart was true.

When the horn of battle blew,

He was right behind us, through and through

Sometimes by a mile or two…

And heading bravely homeward-o.

Said this Halfling "It's no lie;

I could steal the white stars from the sky

And hang them on a line to dry."

"That would be very true," said I.

"If they weren't up quite so high…

And you not _quite_ so lowly-o."

Sun is in the grassy field and

Moon is in the meadow.

Wind is dancing in the leaves and

In the river's bed-o.

Bow ye twice to the fine old dame

That is summer's daughter.

Sit ye down for a tale or two

Where good ale flows like water.

He looked at me with a madman's grin

"Oh lass, I'll lay you a wager then.

I'll steal those stars, if you do ken,

And put them all back up again

Lined up to spell my name-o."

I laughed and called that wager fair.

"Two hundred says you'll never dare

To climb so far up in the air

And if you attempt that celestial lair…

You'll break your silly neck-o."

Sun is in the grassy field and

Moon is in the meadow.

Wind is dancing in the leaves and

In the river's bed-o.

Bow ye twice to the fine old dame

That is summer's daughter.

Sit ye down for a tale or two

Where good ale flows like water.

Suns did set and moons did rise,

Imagine this poor bard's surprise,

What did she see before her eyes?

But not a one star in the sky

That did not spell his name-o.

"Well lass, I call our terms agreed.

You see, I have just done the deed.

And now I have one simple need:

Please pay the sum, and pass the mead

For thieven's thirsty work-o"

Sun is in the grassy field and

Moon is in the meadow.

Wind is dancing in the leaves and

In the river's bed-o.

Bow ye twice to the fine old dame

That is summer's daughter.

Sit ye down for a tale or two

Where good ale flows like water.

I shook my head, a charming grin.

"Dear sir, your payback may be thin.

Forgive me this one mortal sin

I really don't think you can win…

For you've misspelled your name-o."

He looked up once and twice and thrice,

He said "Oh great, if that ain't nice…"

He sighed "Well, damn. That's the fall o' the dice.

I think I need to go find some ice…

For both my poor head and my whiskey-o."

Spit in the palm and call it done;

We've swapped our tales and had our fun.

Two hundred gold as good as won.

Maybe next time I'll ask for the sun

Or the moon to weave into my hair-o.

Sun is in the grassy field and

Moon is in the meadow.

Wind is dancing in the leaves and

In the river's bed-o.

Bow ye twice to the fine old dame

That is summer's daughter.

Sit ye down for a tale or two

Where good ale flows like water.


	8. Old Dreams, Part II

It was late into the night before Lyra's soft footsteps led her to the manor house's gates. The moon hung bright as a silver teardrop in the eastern sky; painting the rustling leaves of the climbing roses dull silver as the soft wind of the summer night mingled their perfume with the ever-present scent of the sea. Lifting the heavy cowl of the woolen cape she wore low over her eyes, she glanced warily about and padded soft as a shade from shadow to shadow until she reached the crumbling red sandstone walls of her home. The vines of wisteria grew as thick as her leg against the wall, their blossoms hanging as heavy as summer in the night air. Glancing about once more, she tangled her fingers into the familiar holds and started to draw herself stealthily upwards.

Carefully and quietly as a cat, she let her cold fingers search out the way among the tough, fibrous creepers, her lute bumping softly against her back as she climbed. Once or twice, she lifted her head at distant sounds, real or imagined and held her breath until they receded into the night. Several breathless moments later, she felt her fingers brush the overhanging lip of her window ledge. With a final, desperate strain, she pulled herself through the narrow opening, and collapsed with a relieved sigh.

Right onto Matthew's severely tapping foot.

With a frightened yelp, Lyra pressed herself against the wall, searching wildly for some means of escape. Seeing none more inviting than the open window and the thirty foot drop outside of it, she swallowed nervously and, giving her mentor her most disarming smile, prepared to give him a perfectly logical reason why she was climbing through the window of her own bedroom two hours after midnight.

Before she could form a single creative explanation, however, Matthew held up a hand, fixing his sky blue eyes on her in an impressive glare. Lyra's mouth shut with an audible snap. Matthew rubbed fitfully at his temples.

"Here I would normally ask you where in all of the hells you have been. Here I would normally shout and scream and demand that you tell me what you have been doing out alone at night dressed like the common, questionably moral street women." He sighed tiredly and ran a hand through his mane of golden hair, still thick despite his age. "However, as I know you far too well to think I have the least chance of getting a straight answer from you, perhaps I should just satisfy myself with your safety and go to bed."

Lyra blushed crimson and struggled to her feet, straightening her skirt with an air of what she hoped was nonchalance. "That sounds like a perfectly sound idea to me, Matthew." She twirled round slowly, letting her skirts billow theatrically. "As you can see; not a scratch on me." Smiling cheekily she feigned a yawn. "By all the saints, I am tired, though, so I think if it's all right with you I'll just turn in…"

She tried to breeze past him, but was stopped short by a large hand on her shoulder.

"Not so fast, my dearest pupil." He held her arm gently but firmly and plopped her down unceremoniously on the small trundle bed. "We need to have words, you and I." She stared up at him defiantly, her silver eyes meeting his warm summer blue gaze with some difficulty. Their silent battle of wills seemed, to Lyra, to stretch into infinity. Finally, though, she looked away and Matthew sat down next to her with a heavy sigh. He touched her cheek softly, tucking an errant strand of raven hair behind her ear.

"Lyra…" He gently lifted her chin, forcing her to look at him. "My silly, foolish, fearless, girl… Where have you been?"

She shrugged vaguely under his intense stare, wrinkling her brow rebelliously. "Out." Pulling nervously on the ratted end of her braid, she turned her head and gazed longingly out the window. Her pale face shone softly in the brush of the moon's white fingers. "Away from Keylor Brandt and his wandering hands and Mistress Brandt and her repulsive taste in music. Away from the everyday and the always and the mindless never-ending day to day drudgery that seems to be the lifeblood of this damn place."

Matthew shook his head angrily. "Midnight has come and gone, child, and judging by the look and smell of you, wherever you were wasn't in one of Kelebrind's finer districts. What were you thinking? You _know_ Lord Brandt does not allow…"

Lyra exploded off of the bed furiously and started stalking the room like a miniature hurricane. "Lord Brandt? Lord Brandt! Lord Brandt would have me meek and meal-faced as the rest of his mindless, giggling scullery girls. I am a street rat that you took pity on, without any great means or station, but I am not one of Keylor Brandt's lapdogs, Matthew. I am _not_!"

"And I am?" His deep voice came softly from his shadowed form slumped tiredly on the bed. "Is that it?"

Lyra's eyes widened. "Matthew, of course not! I just…" He held up his hand and she trailed slowly off under his eyes. She stood in the middle of the tiny room with her arms wrapped protectively around herself, not looking at him, her shoulders slumped; alone and small and scared in the quiet light of the moon.

"I just can't always keep myself behind these bars, Matthew. I can't! Not when there is a life out there that is wild and careless and windblown. Not when there are adventures out there, and monsters and heroes." She hugged herself, near tears, in what may have been fear or rapture; he wasn't sure. "Oh Matthew, the night air in the streets is more potent than wine. It tastes like freedom. It tastes like _life_!"

Matthew sighed as his heart tugged at him, just as it had all those years ago when he had first seen a dirty, thin little child singing to the manor house's cats. He had demanded then that Lord Brandt let him take the little urchin as his pupil; a decision he was questioning the sanity of to this day. He rose from the bed and took her in his huge arms, rocking her gently as he had when she was a child. She was stiff and unyielding at first, but eventually relaxed and leaned her head wearily into his shoulder.

"Keylor Brandt be damned, Lyra. He is not the reason I have been waiting in this room since nightfall with my heart in pieces." She looked up to meet his gaze, and he wiped the single silver tear from her cheek with his thumb. He watched her eyes solemnly, with a weight and intensity in his face that Lyra had never seen there before. "By the name of Kaladine, girl; do you know what will happen to you if the wrong person catches you alone in the dark streets of Kelebrind? I love you like the daughter the Saint's never saw fit to bless me with. Do not make me face a morning where you do not come home." He lifted the lute from off of her back and, gently setting it against the wall, sat her down on the bed once more. He smiled, ruefully.

"Trouble runs in your blood, my girl. I knew that the second that irate cleric dumped you on our doorstep. Just remember that adventures are very rarely all that the bards would have us suppose, and as hard as it may be for you to believe, boredom is far preferable to death."

Lyra smiled crookedly and wrapped one of the good woolen blankets around her shoulders. She bit her lip softly, and glanced up at the man who had been a father to her from the time she was plucked off of the streets. The fine wrinkles around his eyes deepened as he smiled at her tenderly. She sighed.

"I'm sorry, Matthew…"

He placed a hand gently on the top of her head and ruffled her dark hair. "I know you are, Lyra. Now, let us forget this. As hard as it may be for you to believe; I too remember what it was like to be young." He turned and walked from the room, pausing in the dark doorway. "Give an old man a peaceful life, my child. Stay away from the dark and danger. Become the Lady I've been trying to beat into you, and take my place as the manor's minstrel when I'm old and deaf. Leave the daring adventures, risky escapes, and handsome, dashing heroes for your songs." Lyra smiled half-heartedly at him, and he closed the door quietly behind himself with a soft goodnight.

She undressed slowly and combed the tangles out of her long untamed hair. Letting it hang free down her back, she climbed to the window seat, still warm from the last remembrances of the summer sun. Long after Matthew had left, she sat quietly staring out of her window across the manicured gardens of Keylor Brandt's estate, far past the sleepy ramshackle town to the wild dark world beyond.


	9. More Than Whiskey

There are lassies who've loved you

As lassies well should,

And ladies who'd die for one

Touch of your hand.

There are maidens in Marfa

And far Kelebrind

Who would follow your footsteps to any far land.

They could lay at your feet

Piles of riches:

Silver, and sapphires and diamonds like dew.

But, what can I offer?

A poor tavern singer

Whose heart is but one that longs only for you…

There are those who'd love you more than silver,

And those who'd love you more than jewels.

There are those who'd see what I offer

And brand me much more than a fool.

There are those who'd love you more than diamonds

More than necklaces, baubles and rings.

But, my dear, I love you more than whiskey

And that's got to count for something.

There are delicate damsels

Sighing delicate sighs

For one stolen glimpse of

The fire in your gaze.

There are thousands of lovers

In thousands of lands

More than willing to love you in thousands of ways.

They could weave you sweet wishes,

Promise you every

Desire or dream that runs through your veins.

But what can I offer?

A poor tavern singer

Who longs for you like the desert longs for the rains.

There are those who'd love you more than silver,

And those who'd love you more than jewels.

There are those who'd see what I offer

And brand me much more than a fool.

There are those who'd love you more than diamonds

More than necklaces, baubles and rings.

But, my dear, I love you more than whiskey

And that's got to count for something.

There are ladies in waiting

And queens on their thrones

Who would give all they posses for

A single soft word.

And they would be for you

Whatever you wish

As fierce as a lion, as sweet as a bird.

They could tempt you with smiles,

Sweet, breathy whispers.

Conceal a fierce hunger behind a sweet kiss.

But what can I offer?

A poor tavern singer.

No riches or gold, but I promise you this…

There are those who'd love you more than silver,

And those who'd love you more than jewels.

There are those who'd see what I offer

And brand me much more than a fool.

There are those who'd love you more than diamonds

More than necklaces, baubles and rings.

But, my dear, I love you more than whiskey

And that's got to count for something.

I could say I love you more than starlight,

And the cold crystal light of the moon.

I could say I love you more than summer

And the emerald shadows of June.

But, my love, all these words are just echoes

Of what others have told you before,

So I'll say I love you more than whiskey

For no one could quite love you more.


	10. A Love Song

It was hard to read his face when she lifted her eyes from the strings of her lute to him. Of course, it was _always_ hard to read his face. Marcus kept his thoughts and feelings locked behind the mask of cold strength he habitually wore. Sometimes, though. Sometimes, he dropped it. For her. Sometimes...

He opened his eyes slowly and her breath caught in her throat as the smile she had come to recognize as one he reserved only for her lit his eyes with the warmth of emerald fire.

"That was...different. I must say. But good, that much is undeniable."

Lyra smiled back shyly, shrugging her shoulders with an air of nonchalance.

"So, what do you think?"

"What do I think?" Marcus stretched out on the stone floor of the cavern, folding his hands behind his head and looking to the cieling as if trying to decipher an answer from the cracked stone. "I think that given enough time, you could challange all but the eldest of the elven Songweavers. Though, I must admit. Your song does beg one question."

She tilted her head, lifting a delicate brow slowly. "Oh? And what question is that?"

Marcus turned those eyes to her again. Eyes like shadows in the forest at twilight. "Who is it about."

Lyra stared at him. And then she laughed, throwing her head back with helpless, joyful amusement. For a moment, Marcus watched her, confused. Then their eyes caught across the distance between them and he laughed too with a rare, full-throated warmth, and time stretched unnoticed between them as the sounds twined together in an echoing song.


End file.
